


Scotch and Sweetness

by MelliviaGrant_forPresident (SilverShortyyy)



Category: Scandal (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-04
Updated: 2017-05-04
Packaged: 2018-10-27 21:18:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10816944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilverShortyyy/pseuds/MelliviaGrant_forPresident
Summary: Fitzgerald Grant calls on his Chief of Staff late into the night. When Abby comes in, there's scotch and a twinkle in his eye."You called for me, Mr. President?"





	Scotch and Sweetness

"Ms. Whelan?" Abby whirls around to the sight of a petite girl in a dark blue suit. The girl holds a clipboard in one hand and files in the other. The president's secretary is someone Abby has gotten quite familiar with, after months of working as the Chief of Staff.

"Yes?" And after so long, her days in the White House are coming to an end.

"The President wants you in his office." Though her workload will get lighter, she's bound to still be working for _him_. Cyrus had said it: being Chief of Staff doesn't really end when your president is out of office.

Wondering why he'd call her to his office at such a late time, and on the day before his goodbye party, Abby turns around and faces the way to the Oval.

"Thank you. I'll be there in a moment."

Her few papers and files in her arms, she proceeds to the President's office, the Oval, wondering what might Fitzgerald Grant III want with his Chief of Staff tonight.

* * *

Abby opens the door and looks around for him. He's at his desk with feet on the table; two terms have passed and still he does that. She hopes that never changes about him.

She waits for him to turn to look at her before closing the door behind her.

"You called for me, Mr. President?"

Abby's heels click against the marble floor as she walks halfway through the office, Fitz having just stood up and off his recliner chair. His feet off the table and his height in full prowess, Abby can't help but smile. Even when he isn't in president mode, he carries himself with such confidence. She wonders if she looks like that too, but highly doubts it's anything like he does it.

"Take a seat, Abby. And it's Fitz."

Eyebrows rumpling together but lips curling into an amused smile, Abby turns around and follows Fitz to the couches in the office. She sits opposite him, where she watches him pour two glasses of scotch. Scotch: she doubts any other president would have a staple supply of scotch in their office.

"Sir, what is this about—?"

"I already told you," he says with a dramatic turn around to look back at her, handing her the drink while he takes a sip of his own, "call me Fitz."

He takes a seat beside her, her papers on the table between the couches. Since when were they at first name basis?

Abby takes a sip of scotch, careful to remember this moment for the rest of her life. Never did she think she'd be here in this moment. Then again, none of them thought anything like this would ever happen. If someone told her five years ago that she'd be enjoying scotch with the most powerful man in the world, who also happens to be her ex-boss' ex-lover, at 10:28 pm on the day before he exits office, she would've accused them of a weak attempt at manipulation.

But here she is. And here they are.

"Okay then, Fitz," she takes the glass of her lips and sets in on her lap. Her hand holds it in place as she turns to look at him. "What's this about?"

Acting innocent, he raises his eyebrows and takes another sip of scotch.

"What's _this_ exactly?" He says, voice muffled by the glass. He puts it down on the table beside Abby's papers, that smirk on his face and that twinkle in his eyes.

Abby tries not to smile even bigger. All she knows is _this_ is anything but work. She looks away, trying to cover up the way the corners of her lips lift up and inevitably show her teeth, taking another sip of scotch to try and hide it even more.

But of course, Fitz notices it. He laughs at her attempt to hide it.

She sets her glass on the other side of her papers.

"What?"

"What?" He mimicks, his smile growing as big as hers.

Abby gives in and laughs; the twinkle in his eyes is so hard to miss.

"Okay. I don't know what this is about, but since when was I allowed to call you Fitz?" She leans against the backrest of the couch and curls further toward him. If she wasn't mistaken, she can feel his knees touching hers.

"I don't know. Since when did I start calling you Abby?"

They share another laugh, and she can't believe it. This is the President of the United States—no, this is just Fitzgerald Grant III. Fitz, just Fitz.

She takes another sip of scotch. He mimcks her movements, sipping on his as well.

"So what was this really about?" She says after a gulp. It's getting increasingly harder to keep the smile off her face.

"Well," he said, and she feels like he's gotten closer even if neither of them have moved; his eyes are so deep she feels like she could drown in them. "You've been a really hard-worker no matter how late duty calls. And you've put up with me for a real length of time. I think you deserve a drink with me after all this is over."

Abby opens her mouth to say something but just shakes her head. It's her job to get her hands dirty and to have sleepless nights.

"And don't say it's your job. Some things you've done aren't in the job description of Chief of Staff."

"Then why?"

"Because, Abby," and he leans foward this time, taking her hand in his own, their hands resting on her lap. "I want to thank you."

His eyes are so much bigger like this, so much deeper and so much easier to drown in.

"Thank me— Wha— For what? I mean—"

"Thank you, Abby. I mean it."

Abby lets the silence engulf her. Here, on the couch, his deep blue eyes feel like oceans, and his big calloused hands feel like big, thick mittens on a cold winter night. The fireplace crackles behind him, the cold breeze of the AC cooling their skin.

A soft smile settles on Abby's red lips. She likes this. She likes all this.

She shakes her head and lets her hair fall like a curtain and frame her face, head tilted down as she averts her eyes from him. Her cheeks might've heat up, but it might've not, and she whispers to him her words knowing he'll hear them clearly even in this big room.

" _I_ should be thanking _you_. You made my job much easier than it could've been." She looks up at him, her bright blue eyes soft in the late night. "And after all the people I've met, I _know_ there's worse than what you've let me have."

He smiles warmly at her, and suddenly the AC doesn't bite at her fingertips. Her feet don't ache from the high heels as much, and her back hurts less from the endless busy days.

She scans his eyes, before letting the words fall from her lips.

"Thank you."

He lets his thumb run circles around the back of her hand, his knee leaning in and coming into full contact with hers.

"You deserve it."

He smiles at her and she smiles back. He lets her go and reaches for his glass of scotch, urging her to take another drink of hers. She follows him, reaching for her glass and taking another gulp as he sets his down, scotch already down his throat.

"And I'm not backing down from my suggestion." He sits completely facing her now; his knees touch her thigh as she leans against it, turning to look at him more fully. "I want _you_ to be the one to handle my foundation."

"I— I can't possibly—"

"I don't see who else would be fit for handling it. I mean, there's me—"

"And I wholly suggest you run your own foundation," Abby takes a gulp and lets it roll of her lips, because it's so surreal saying this and so surreal how he and she are on first name basis now. "Fitz."

"—But I don't trust I can run it properly. You'd probably hold more than half of the responsibilities if I run it; probably everything except the signing. You'd do better handling it."

Abby makes to stand, a smile playing on her lips but her voice raising the slightest bit.

"I could handle things but you'd still have to be the one to head _your_ foundation! I mean, I'd be honored to take it, but it's _yours_ , not mine."

Fitz pulls at Abby's hand and she falls back onto the couch, closer to him this time, and from here she can smell his cologne so much easier, and he can smell her perfume so much stronger.

"Then take it."

He rests their hands on his lap.

"No, you'll take it." Abby pulls her hand out of his grip and pushes two fingers onto his chest.

He takes her hands again.

"You will own my foundation."

"No, you will own your foundation."

" _You_ will own my foundation."

"No, _you_ will own _my_ foundation— No, wait _your_ foundation—"

Fitz chuckles at this, and Abby sends him a playfully disappointed look, before getting up the couch and collecting her papers. She downs her scotch in one gulp, then turns around to look back at him. She leans on the table, the back of her knees folding at the edge of the glass.

"I'm having the last say in this conversation and _you_ will own your foundation, Mr. President." Abby says with a smile. Her bright blue eyes stare into his own, and he raises his eyebrows with a smirk for the first time ever while she's telling him what to do. Abby smiles at him for one last moment. "Goodnight, Mr. President."

Abby's heels click against the marble floor as she rounds the couch and nearly reaches the door, until he speaks again.

"I haven't dismissed you yet." He says teasingly, the glass of scotch swirling in his hand while he stands up and turns to face her.

She turns and faces him fully.

"Then what is it?" She says with a hint of a smile on her face. Her blue eyes twinkle like stars late at night.

He downs the last of his drink and rounds the couch to meet her.

"I told you earlier tonight that you deserve a drink with me after all this is over."

"Yes, and we've had that drink—" Abby's calculative eyes hold evidence of why her words stop, and her eyebrows furrow as if to ask Fitz what this is about. When she speaks again, she's careful though knows she's right. "Are you asking me out on a date?"

He nods with a bright smile on his face.

She gives an incredoulous laugh.

"What— Why?"

"Because I want to take you out on a date. So will you, or not?"

Abby stares at him, unbelieving. But her stomach flutters and her heart skips a beat, and she finds herself on the dangerous edge of drowning in his maelstrom blue eyes.

"When? And where? Please tell me it isn't in public, think what the press would say, think—"

"The night after next, and don't worry, it's in a pretty unknown place. I'll be riding a really old car going there, and I'll be riding in the backseat where the windows are nearly obscured with grime. And it's not dangerous, it's just a little far from the city."

Speechless, and unwilling to refuse, Abby lets her words flow without her thinking.

"Will you pick me up?"

"Yep. Be at the park at 7 pm. Night after next."

Abby can't help but just stare at him.

"Now you're dismissed." He moves to open the door behind her and twists the knob. The lock clicks and he pulls it open, holding it ajar for her to exit.

"Goodnight Abby."

"Goodnight... Fitz."

When Abby leaves, she doesn't understand why she feels so warm, why her stomach is buzzing, why her heart is pounding, why she feels inevitably like she's found something so close to home.


End file.
